


25 Chances for Christmas Magic

by 26stars



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas Challenge, F/F, I need more fluff in my life, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-09 14:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12890061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26stars/pseuds/26stars
Summary: Holiday-related (mostly) fluffy oneshots. Hopefully posting semi-regularly throughout December. All May & Daisy interactions (some platonic some romantic) with walk-throughs of lots of other characters. Chapter summaries have descriptions for each.Chapter 11: Daisy's feeling brave and invites her neighbor over for dinner. It turns out pretty well. (SHIELD-free AU)





	1. After Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Character A and Character B, sworn enemies, are chosen to prepare the company Christmas Party.
> 
> Low-key Corporate AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok honestly guys, my s3 re-watch for The Way They Happen has actually been bad for my emotional health, and I needed some more fluff in my life. Not sure how regularly I'll be able to add a new story to this work, but all the prompts gave me warm fuzzies and I'd like to try as many of them as I can!

“You _cannot_ be serious.”

“I don’t think you understand the concept of assignments—when your director gives them, you do them. No discussion.”

Stunned and more than a little insulted, Daisy turns the memo around, waving it at Fury’s unamused face. “This isn’t an assignment. You don’t pay me to plan parties—you pay me to write code. If you want an office Christmas party, then you ought to hire a party service or plan it yourself.”

From behind his desk, Director Fury regards her coolly. “Do I look like the kind of person who knows how to show people a good time at the holidays?”

“You, sir, look like the kind of guy who holds a fight club in the boiler room on Friday nights,” Daisy responds. “And I’m still waiting on my invite to that.”

Fury smirks over the top of his computer monitor. “You have your assignment, Miss Johnson. Now go put on your big-girl boots and get back to work.”

“But…” Daisy stammers, not willing to give up yet. “Mr. Fury, please…can’t I work with anyone but Melinda? Pair me up with Lance, for God’s sake—at least I don’t feel like he’s plotting my death every time he looks at me. Surely you've noticed the permanent death glare Melinda’s been giving me since I started working here…”

“That’s just how her face is,” Fury responds, no only half-paying attention to her. “Want to know why, you’ll have to actually talk to her.”

“She seems more like the kind of person who attends your boiler-room fight club than the kind that throws a good Christmas party,” Daisy grumbles, glancing through the frosted glass panel’s in the direction of Melinda’s work area. “Why did you pick her for this, anyway? She lose a bet?”

“She knows what she did,” Fury says without missing a beat. “Let’s just say I know it was exactly the punishment she deserved.”

“Sir...” Daisy begins again, turning towards her Director again only to be met with his unamused laser-glare.

“Miss Johnson,” he says calmly, his good eye fixed steadily on hers. “That's enough. Get back to work.”

Daisy manages not to slam the door on the way out, but she does take the long route back to her desk in order to calm down first. A few laps around their company’s half of the floor makes the thought of throwing a Christmas party for her co-workers sound not half-bad, but she’s still intimidated by her assigned partner. Once she’s seated in front of her computer again though, she takes a deep breath, then opens a new email _to Melinda May, cc Nicholas Fury._

 _Looks like you and me are Fury’s pick for office Christmas party duty,_ she types after the usual header. _Want to get together sometime this week and talk about ideas?_

When she checks her email a little while later, she sees a reply from Melinda already waiting.

 _I do lunch on the roof most days,_ it reads. _You can find me up there at 12._

At twelve fifteen, Daisy finally finds the right roof-access door that is propped open with a brick and leads out to the skyscraper’s roof. Vents and other HVAC equipment clutter the flat surface and drone with an unpleasant level of noise, but the low wall around the edge of the building still offers a decent panorama of the city.

“Melinda?” Daisy calls, feeling more awkward by the second as she steps over the brick and out into the noisy labyrinth.

“Over here!” a voice answers from the other side of a bank of vents, and Daisy moves towards the sound.

Her co-worker is sitting on top of a file cabinet that is tipped on its side, a crumpled brown paper lunch sack beside her and a laptop across her thighs. She looks more at ease than Daisy has ever seen her, a fact that is slightly unnerving. The two of them haven’t exactly interacted much in Daisy’s relatively short tenure at this company, but _happy_ is definitely a look Daisy hasn’t seen on this woman before.

“Hey,” she says, approaching cautiously. Melinda doesn’t look up from her laptop at first, but when she does, it’s to glance pointedly at the space on the file cabinet beside her, which Daisy slowly sits down on.

“I know you’re not thrilled to be assigned to do this with me,” Melinda says before Daisy can come up with an opening statement. “But I’m going to make you a deal up front.”

Her eyes finally leave her laptop screen, and Daisy’s a little startled by the sincerity in her gaze as their eyes meet.

“Fury’s not doing this to punish you. He _thinks_ he’s doing it to punish me. But this is my wheelhouse, and I’ve been working here a lot longer then you, so here’s my offer: I will do all the work. I’ll call all the vendors, I’ll arrange all the deliveries. I’ll pay people to come set everything up so that you don’t even have to stay late after work to do it. All I’m asking is that you take credit for absolutely all of it.”

Daisy can only blink for a moment, absorbing this flood of more words than she has heard from this woman in her entire one-and-a-half years at this office. But when Melinda quirks an eyebrow expectantly, she finally manages to get her words going again.

“I’m sorry. You’re saying…”

“I do the work and plan a good party, and you can take all the credit,” Melinda repeats patiently. “You can tell everyone I was a bad partner, that I was mean, that I awful to work with, whatever, but I promise I won’t set you up to take credit for a bad party. I don’t do shit halfway—Fury wants his team to have a good party, then they’re going to get a good party.”

“Why would you—“

“I don’t work well with others,” Melinda answers unapologetically as she turns back to her laptop. “I’m a micromanager, and I’m picky. But I’ve been waiting for a chance to plan this party since I got promoted to Fury’s floor. And now I’ve finally played my cards right and gotten him to think he’s sticking it to me by giving me this assignment. But jokes on him—it’s going to be the best party our team has seen.”

Daisy continues to stare at Melinda, nodding slowly. “Are you sure I can’t do anything?”

Melinda nods, though she seems to only be half-listening. “You can talk it up. Make sure everyone comes. Sell the party hard.”

But something about this still feels off, so Daisy dares to push her luck.

“Look, I know I barely know you, but I have a bad feeling that you’re plotting something.”

“You’re on my Nice List, Daisy,” Melinda says, glancing at her and patting her cheek once, somewhat patronizingly. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I promise, you’ll get to take credit for an awesome event.”

“How am I going to sell it if I don’t even know what’s going to happen at the party?”

“I’ll pass you information as it becomes relevant,” Melinda promises, going back to her computer. “Now go ahead and scoot on downstairs and pretend like this meeting went badly.”

Daisy attempts to sound certain. “If you’re planning another one of the legendary pranks that I’ve heard about, then I want in.”

“You’ve gotta earn your sidekick badge first,” Melinda says without missing a beat. “One of the ways you earn that is by doing exactly what I tell you. Starting with this.”

Melinda starts typing a little louder, and Daisy knows she’s dismissed.

She heads back downstairs, still trying to count how many things in the past ten minutes have surprised her.

~~

The date for the Christmas party creeps closer as December progresses, and aside from a few sparse emails here and there informing her of a few delivery times and with an attached evite to send to their entire staff, Daisy has received close to no communication from Melinda since their rooftop conversation. The evite advertises games, door prizes, good food, and an open bar, so Daisy doesn’t have to work too terribly hard to convince everyone to show up as the Friday-night affair draws closer.

 _Festive winter casual,_ the line about dress code reads, but Daisy can’t quite make herself invest in a thrift-store Christmas sweater for the event. She compromises with a green sweater-dress and her black suede boots, topping off with a Santa hat. Still, she feels remarkably underdressed when she arrives a few minutes early to the party and finds their entire office floor transformed into a twinkling winter wonderland.

“Told you you wouldn’t have to take credit for a shitty party,” a voice says behind her as Daisy walks around, gaping at the sight of the decorations, the food table, the pile of wrapped gifts…

Daisy turns to see Melinda in a deep purple cowl-neck sweater with black jeans, her hair twisted up in an effortless-looking style to expose a pair of shimmering snowflake earrings. She’s stacking bags of party favors in a basket on one of the tables as Daisy approaches, eyes bright.

“How did you…”

“I pay people,” Melinda says candidly, shrugging at the decorations around them. “I couldn’t trim a tree to save my life.”

“Everything looks amazing,” Daisy says certainly, still marveling at how it’s supposedly still their office under all this tinsel and fake snow…

“I paid people,” Melinda says again, though this time she seems to be smiling shyly.

“You definitely went over budget.”

“I’m picking up the tab, don’t worry,” Melinda says, finally finishing stacking the basket of favors and patting Daisy’s cheek once again. “Now go grab a drink and get ready to host. That’s all I need you to do for the rest of the night.”

A printout with a detailed schedule tells Daisy what time to call out door prizes, when to start the games and where to find the materials, and when to pass the microphone to Fury for his brief Christmas well-wishes and then to Coulson for his slightly longer-winded speech. Daisy has a great time watching everyone enjoying themselves, and a couple of glasses of wine help her finally relax to her pre-Christmas-party-assignment level. She accidently loses count of her drinks, though, and eventually decides to take a breather in one of the side offices while everyone mingles again after a game of Pass the Gift.

But as she sinks into one of the chairs facing Jeffrey Mace’s desk and takes a few deep breaths while fanning herself with an envelope off his desk, Daisy nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears someone clear their throat softly from the shadows. She leaps to her feet and spins in the noise’s direction, catching herself against the desk as she teeters, slightly tipsy.

“What the hell!” she yelps as Melinda practically materializes out of the dark from behind Mace’s desk, leaning calmly into the light with a finger on her lips.

“What are you doing in here?” Daisy snaps as she realizes who it is, not softly enough for Melinda apparently, because she rounds the desk.

“What are _you_ doing in here?” the woman asks right back as she slips some kind of multi-tool back into her pocket. “You’re supposed to be hosting right now, aren’t you? That’s all I asked you to do, after all.”

“You’re totally setting up pranks right now, aren’t you?” Daisy announces as the pieces suddenly fall into place. “That’s why you wanted everyone to be here but for it to look like you weren’t?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Melinda answers with a shrug. “I’m doing the same thing as you—getting a little peace and quiet for a second.”

“What are you going to do if I walk back out there and tell Jeff you’re messing around under his desk with some tools?” Daisy says smugly, folding her arms across her chest and grinning.

“Well, I think you’d suddenly find yourself on my Naughty list, and I would be under your desk next,” Melinda answers calmly, quirking a brow and folding her arms right back.

Daisy stares back at her in the dark for a moment, weighing her options.

“Fine,” she eventually says, “I won’t rat you out…if you let me help.”

Melinda shakes her head, a first trace of a smile appearing. “You won’t rat me out, or I’ll get you next.”

Daisy scrunches up her nose, reaching over and giving Melinda a small shove on the shoulder. “I bet you’re real fun at parties,” she grumbles.

“I’m delightful,” Melinda says tonelessly, her eyes suddenly darting towards the frosted glass separating them from the party, seeming to register something Daisy doesn’t have the chance to turn around and see.

“Someone’s coming in,” Melinda mutters sharply, seizing Daisy the wrist and hauling her towards the desk.

 _There’s no time to hide,_ Daisy thinks as she tries to turn towards the desk and duck out of sight behind it, but that’s apparently not what Melinda has in mind. Before she realizes what’s happening, the other woman has her pressed back against the unyielding furniture and her face buried in Daisy’s neck, her arms wrapping around her in a sound embrace, literally hiding in plain sight. Daisy hears herself squeak in surprise just before she hears the door open and another obviously-drunk pair stumble partway into the room.

“Oh wait, hold on, love,” Daisy hears Lance’s distinct voice carry through the dimness. “This room’s already occupied.”

Melinda doesn’t move from her place hidden in Daisy’s neck, and Daisy barely has the presence of mind to answer, but she sees the taller of the couple give Lance a shove towards the door anyway.

“Come on, Hunter,” Bobbi’s teasing voice drifts through the dark. “Let’s go see if Phil’s office is open.”

As soon as the door closes again, Melinda releases Daisy and steps back, her expression turning apologetic.

“Sorry,” she says immediately. “I shouldn’t have done that without asking.”

“No,” Daisy says, a little breathlessly, her knees trembling slightly as she plants her feet on the floor again. “And now this is probably all I’m going to hear about from Hunter for weeks.”

“Better than being accused of vandalism,” Melinda reminds her with a shrug, relief visible in her eyes. “Now, if I remember that schedule correctly, you’re supposed to start another game in about two minutes. That’s supposed to be my cover to get into Fury’s office. And I’d hate for anyone on my list to not get their Christmas present this year.”

“You’re making Christmas magic, you know that?” Daisy says, finally sliding off the desk and moving towards the door. “No one sees you come or go…but they come in in the morning and something incredible is waiting…”

“Take your labored metaphor out there and get back to hosting,” Melinda says calmly, giving Daisy a small push towards the exit. “I’ll see you when this is over.”

“Looking forward to it,” Daisy says, stepping back out into the party with a grin.


	2. Secret Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Character A’s best friend rigs the Secret Santa, because they know Character A has a crush on Character B.  
> [Corporate Co-workers AU]

“Now remember,” Jemma says as she walks around the office, dropping small red envelopes onto desks beside computer keyboards, “your gift ought to stay in the price range of ten to thirty dollars—this is hardly a competition for who can out-gift the rest of the office. Try to be thoughtful and make it fun, and of course, the point of _Secret_ Santa is that your partner doesn’t know it’s you until the day you give the gift. If you open your envelope and find a card with your own name inside, come and talk to me so that I can switch you.”

Daisy is smiling as she takes the card Jemma hands her, but her smile instantly vanishes as soon as she pops the flap of the envelope and peeks at the name.

_…_

_…_

_Oh no…_

“All right, everyone got a name then?” Jemma says, her hands now empty as she turns slowly, watching everyone open their envelopes. “No problems? Very well—happy shopping!”

Not wanting to make a scene that anyone else in the office would notice, Daisy waits until lunch break to haul Jemma to the bathroom.

“Jemma, I don’t care who you got, but I need to switch with you,” she says immediately, holding up her small red envelope. “No questions asked.”

But Jemma has a knowing look in her eye as she glances at the envelope.

“I’m disappointed, Daisy,” she says, smirking slightly. “I thought you’d like the person I picked for you.”

“You did this _on purpose_?” Daisy says disbelievingly. “Jemma Simmons…why?”

But Jemma only rolls her eyes, turning towards the large mirror above the sink and readjusting the bobby pins in her hair. “Because, Daisy, you have literally been pining over that woman since the day you got here, and I need to see you make a move _sometime_ before I retire.”

Stunned, Daisy turns to the mirror too. “That’s not your business, Jemma!” she snaps, grabbing her gaze in their reflection. “I may have told you that I _like_ her, but that doesn’t give you permission to—“

“ _Daisy_ ,” Jemma cuts her off, giving her a stern look in the mirror. “You did the exact same thing to me and Fitz, rigging circumstances for us to be forced into a new situation so that we had to actually speak to one another. And look—that turned out just fine! That said, I don’t think you have any place to complain about my methods.”

Daisy looks back down at the little red envelope in her hand.

“What am I even supposed to _get_ her? I barely know her.”

“Hack her computer and check her browser history,” Jemma suggests, finally turning from the mirror and quirking a brow. “Aren’t you good at that?”

Daisy scrunches up her nose. “Those are dangerous waters, Jemma. I’ve accidentally learned about people’s porn preferences using that method. And I definitely don’t want to know that much about her without speaking to her in person.”

“You can be boring and just _ask_ her,” Jemma says, gathering up her bag. “I can’t stay here all day and argue with you though, Daisy. Fitz and I are going shopping for his Mum during his lunch break, and I said I’d meet him up on his floor. Figure it out—you’re good like that.”

Daisy doesn’t follow her friend as she heads for the tall swinging door and leaves the bathroom, just stays leaning on the sink, flipping the card back and forth over her fingers, trying to think of a plan of action.

All her ideas evaporate, however, when a toilet at the end of the row suddenly flushes and a stall door swings open.

Melinda May doesn’t say anything as she approaches the row of sinks and begins to wash her hands, but Daisy can’t make herself move.

 _It looks suspicious if you bolt,_ she thinks to herself, barely breathing. _You never said her name. She doesn’t know you were talking to Jemma about her. She barely talks to you as it is; she surely wouldn’t chat in the bathroom…_

But as Melinda turns off the water and grabs a paper towel form the dispenser between the mirrors, Daisy feels her gaze turn on her. Barely breathing, she glances over and meets the woman’s eyes, painfully aware of the red envelope still clutched in her hand.

Melinda has a knowing look in her eye and a small smile playing at her lips.

“You got my name, didn’t you?”

Daisy finally manages to move, turning slightly towards Melinda and trying to feign innocence.

“Why in the world would you think that?” she attempts, hearing how strained her voice sounds to her own ears.

Melinda smirks and tosses her paper towel into the bin between the sinks.

“Because your poker face sucks. And because I have a better idea than Secret Santa.”

She produces a card from her slacks pocket, on which is written Daisy’s name in Jemma’s handwriting, and Daisy’s mouth falls open.

“My favorite restaurant is Beau Thai,” Melinda says, that same smile now a little bit brighter. “How about you forget the Secret Santa gift and buy me dinner there after work tonight instead? And then maybe afterward, I can buy you a drink?”

Daisy can only gape for a moment, but when she finally realizes that she’s supposed to answer, she lets her face break into a smile.

“Jemma didn’t say that she gave you my name, too.”

Melinda shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t know she did. Could just be a little Christmas magic." She raises an expectant brow. "So it’s a date then?”

Daisy feels herself barely blushing as she nods. “It’s a date!” she answers breathlessly. “Can I pick you up at your desk at five?”

Melinda smiles as she brushes past Daisy towards the door. “I asked you out—I’ll pick _you_ up. Don’t be late!”

The door swings closed behind her, and Daisy looks down at the envelope in hand again, realizing that she’s going to have a lot more to tell Jemma when she gets back from lunch.


	3. Helper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A works as a Santa’s helper. Character B has a small sibling/child.

Skye adjusts her skirt for the dozenth time, tugging down the scalloped green pleats and attempting to also subtly hitch up the waistband of her red-and-white striped leggings, which were once again creeping down her nonexistent hips. The bells on her wrists jingle with every movement, making her feel like a cautionary cat in the middle of the mayhem.

“ _Stop fidgeting_ ,” her co-worker/shift manager, who is working the register a few feet away, hisses in her direction. “You’re making everyone antsy.”

Skye glances at the line full of exhausted parents towing tired-of-standing kids, some of whom were in the throes of crying meltdowns already.

 _I don’t think anyone around here needs my help for that,_ she retorts mentally, though she manages to keep her mouth shut—she needs this job pretty badly. It’s the Christmas season, and as a high-school dropout with no adult supervision, she’s apparently one of the only people in town both available and willing to work this miserable holiday job. It has an inevitable end date, though, on Christmas Eve, and she wants a good reference to carry her into some other employment after the holiday.

Still, her uniform leaves plenty to be desired, considering how many hours a week she has to spend in it. At least the Persian-toed, bell-adorned elf shoes are comfortable to stand in for long periods of time.

The line of kids waiting to see this town’s mall Santa has been growing steadily since public schools let out about an hour ago, and Skye passes the time by making up stories for each parent-child combination that passes her station.

_New parents wanting the token Christmas-card photo to show the in-laws. Seems like they’d be happy even if the baby screams through the whole thing. And looks like she probably will…_

_Divorced dad trying to out-do his wife by getting the heads-up on his kids’ Christmas wishes._

_Mom who just wants to get out of the house—probably paying for the sitting but not buying any pictures._

In the middle of all the noise and energy, it’s a pair of relatively calm people that catches Skye’s eye. It’s a woman and a girl who looks a little too old to be visiting Santa, both of them watching their surroundings with active gazes. The child has her hand wrapped inside the woman’s but is still turned slightly away from her, seeming to be more engrossed in the chaos of the shopping mall than just the man in the red suit waiting at the end of their line. Neither of them are talking, but the silence doesn’t seem to be too tense. They both just seem to have a lot on their minds.

Skye can’t stop glancing at them as they move closer to her station at the head of the line. She tries to focus on keeping a smile on her face while she moderates the crowds, letting one family at a time through the velvet rope to talk to the big man, but she can’t help speculating more as the pair gets closer. It doesn’t look like they could possibly related—the woman is Asian, and, though she has dark eyes and hair, the girl doesn’t seem to have much in her features that suggests this chaperone might be her mother. She seems comfortable enough with her, however, so Skye guesses _aunt and niece, out for an afternoon to give mom a little time at home to wrap gifts,_ but hopes to have a chance to ask once they get to the front.

When that time finally comes, Skye smiles brightly as she lets the family in front of them through the rope and then closes it again in front of the woman and girl.

“You’re next! Are you excited?” Skye asks, her usual question for each kid who gets this far through the line without being towed away by an exasperated parent.

The girl meets her eyes like she knows Skye is talking to her, but she doesn’t smile as she glances at the woman holding her hand, who surprises Skye by translating the question into a language Skye isn’t familiar with. At this, the girl nods, though she seems far more somber than any child Skye has seen this whole season.

“Okay, well, it will be just one more minute, and then you can tell the big man your Christmas wish!” Skye says, attempting to be less overwhelming with her customer-service smile.

Again, the woman translates, and again, the girl nods soberly.

When she glances up, Skye sees the woman looking at her, a knowing look pre-empting her question.

“She’s still learning English,” the Asian woman says, her thumb running comfortingly over the back of the child’s hand. “This is her first Christmas in America.”

Understanding dawns, making Skye smile more brightly.

“Is she adopted?” she breathes.

It’s a personal question, far more personal than she’s supposed to get in this job, but she has to know. It always makes her happy to see this, especially at Christmas.

The woman nods slowly, smiling down at the girl, and now Skye sees it—that new-parent nervousness that hovers in the background of every emotion, that look of wonder with it.

“We just brought her home a couple of months ago,” she says. “Everything is official, but there’s a lot that’s still new for both of us. I didn’t know if she’d be up for visiting Santa this year, but I was worried she would definitely be too old next year…”

She trails off as the family ahead of them clears out of Santa’s area, and Skye quickly removes the velvet rope so that the woman and girl can walk through.

She’s supposed to chat with the family that’s next in line while they wait, but Skye can’t look away as the pair approaches the Santa in his big blue chair. The girl never lets go of her mother’s hand, and the woman kneels to translate between the girl and the big man in the red suit. Watching them, Skye feels a twinge of envy, but it flickers beneath a current of joy at seeing a girl not unlike herself getting a little Christmas magic from someone who cares about her, even if it’s a little intimidating.

When it’s time to take a photo, the mom looks questioningly at the girl, who still doesn’t drop her hand. So the woman holds onto her and stands behind her as the girl perches on Santa’s knee and offers the first smile Skye’s seen on her, one that shows that she still doesn’t quite understand what’s happening but wants to try.

The woman doesn’t look back at Skye as her daughter waves goodbye to Santa and the pair of them head off towards the exit, but Skye manages to get a peek at their picture order during her break later that afternoon.

The next day, she manages to snag the post in the photo printing and pick-up area, so she’s sitting behind the counter when the woman arrives, again with her daughter, to pick up their pictures. Skye had checked every envelope throughout her shift until she found the right one—labelled for a _Melinda May-Garner_ —and she almost forgets to ask the woman’s name when they finally show up.

“What did you think of Santa?” Skye asks the girl as she passes the envelope of photos to the mother.

The mom—Melinda—translates, and this time, the child’s smile seems a little less hesitant.

“Big,” the girl answers in English, and Skye laughs.

“He is, isn’t he?” she agrees. The mother’s eyes meet hers gratefully, and Skye seizes the opportunity to say what she’s been wanting to tell the woman since yesterday.

“You’re doing a great job,” she says quietly, trying to look as sincere as possible. “I’m glad she has you.”

The words seem to catch the woman by surprise, but she smiles kindly in response. “Thank you,” she says, slipping a gentle hand around her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m glad we have her, too.”

They share a smile, and Skye’s not sure if the woman can tell that there’s more in back of those words, so much more that Skye doesn’t have time to share, but this is going to have to be enough—there are more families waiting.

“Merry Christmas!” Skye says, passing the girl a small candy-cane from the basket on her desk. “I hope you have a good one!”

The girl smiles and takes the candy while her mother translates, then waves goodbye as the woman guides her away from the desk.

“Merry Christmas!” Melinda calls as they walk away.

Skye smiles, but the next parent in line is already taking her attention, clamoring for the previous day’s pictures, and she has to refocus once again, the bells on her hat and shirt cuffs jingling as she searches for the next bundle of Christmas magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if it wasn't obvious, the little girl is supposed to be Katya. I had thought through the whole story of how May ended up with her, but there just wasn't a place in this little exchange to tell it. Still, it's nice to think of them having a different (so much better) story.


	4. A Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A is desperate to find a particular item (book/toy/etc.) as a present for someone, but it’s been sold out everywhere. Character B helps.

Skye sneezes for the third time in twenty minutes, wondering why the hell the staff of this shop, who clearly have so much time on their hands, don’t bother to dust their shelves more often instead of just sitting around. The worker on duty is obviously the B-team, since it’s four in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and they’re stuck here to keep the doors open for last-minute shoppers like herself. When looking for a place to haunt after her shift at the diner was over, Skye had ventured into this shop for the first time, assuming that the mall would be packed but that an antique shop like this might be a quieter place to warm up so that she didn’t have to keep the car running for too much of the afternoon.

She was half-right—it’s definitely quieter than a mall. But the interior is dim and dusty, there’s no wifi, and there isn’t really any furniture to sit on or corners to camp out in. Except for where she is right now—curled on an old braided rug next to a short shelf of children’s books, many of which are classic enough to be desirable for re-sale but not precious enough to be kept behind glass. The worker hasn’t been paying any attention to her, and Skye hasn’t been interrupted for over an hour, meaning she’s made her way through two levels of the shelf and has accumulated a pile of favorites beside her knee. She of course, has no plans to purchase any of them, but she wouldn’t mind reading these again before she leaves at closing time.

The bell at the door jingles, and Skye hears the person at the counter murmur a holiday greeting. The sound of two people moving quietly into the shop doesn’t make her look up from her current book— _Harold and the Purple Crayon_. It sounds like a couple, but the man and woman split up to wander the shop, though they keep calling to one another across the shelves in soft voices.

“They’ve got a vintage Cap lunchbox over here, Mel,” the man calls from the direction of the kitchen-wares area.

“You already have two, Phil,” the woman calls back, startling Skye by how close she is to the children’s section—she hadn’t even heard her sneak up. Skye does glance up at the woman then, noticing the amount of layers she’s wearing and the tiny beads of moisture sitting lightly on the woman’s dark hair.

_Snowing again. The car’s going to be freezing tonight..._

The woman enters the children’s area, surprising Skye by crouching down near her to inspect the contents of the shelf next to her. Skye goes back to the book in her hands for a minute, but then the woman turns slightly towards her.

“Do you mind if I look through those?” she asks, nodding at the pile of books beside Skye on the rug.

Skye shakes her head, pushing the stack towards the woman. “I sure won’t be buying any of them. Have at it.”

“Thanks,” the woman says, sifting through the books.

“Are you looking for something specific?” Skye asks, deciding there’s no reason to not help out anyone desperate enough to be shopping on Christmas Eve. “I may have seen what you’re looking for already.”

The woman shakes her head, smiling slightly as she continues to flip through the old books. “Not specific, no. My husband and I have a tradition of going out to antique shops together on Christmas Eve—he’s really into vintage stuff, but he likes the adventure of finding it more. It’s basically my personal quest to find something he’d like before he finds it himself.”

Skye smiles slightly, liking the sound of this couple. “Is there anything special he really likes?” she asks as the woman restacks the books and slides them back over to Skye.

“Captain America, Howling Commandos, early Cold-War-era stuff,” the woman answers, turning towards a bin of stuffed toys. “He’s all about the golden heroes.”

“You should look at these, then,” Skye says, reaching behind herself for the plastic basket she had been leaning against. It’s full of comics that are all at least 30 years old, some in dust covers but others well-worn. Skye’s fairly certain she saw a few red-white-and-blue covers when she flipped through them earlier.

“Perfect!” the woman says, diving eagerly into the titles, and Skye gives up pretending to read her book to watch to see if the woman finds anything good.

“Oh wow, they’ve got all of them,” the woman says, laying a few issues out in chronological order. “If I could just get a set together…”

Amazingly, ten consecutive issues are all there, and the woman is grinning as she stacks them up.

“Phil is going to _flip_ ,” she says, tucking the other magazines back into the basket. “He’s never had his own set before.”

“Hope he finds you something good, too,” Skye says with a smile, sliding the basket back behind herself.

“Oh, he wouldn’t dare buy me antiques,” the woman says with a wink as she gets to her feet. “Pearls to swine.”

Skye expects her to leave then, so she bows her head over _Harold and the Purple Crayon_ once more, but the woman surprises her again.

“Do you come here for the ambiance? I don’t see too many people your age in the kind of shops we go to.”

Skye keeps her eyes down as she shrugs, not minding the question but unsure how much she wants to answer. “It’s quieter than a mall bookstore on a day like this.”

“Have plans for tonight?”

Skye keeps her head bowed over the book and shrugs again.

_Finding a relatively warm level of some mall parking garage and settling in for the night…possibly getting drunk before midnight…_

“Well, if you’re not busy,” the woman says then, a knowing tone in her voice, “my husband and I usually go eat at Great Wok over on Broadway once we’ve found our Christmas loot. It’s another tradition—we get Chinese and then go home and watch a cheesy Christmas movie. If you don’t have somewhere else to be, you should come with us. I’d love to treat you to dinner for helping me find all these.”

Skye finally looks up, attempting to measure the sincerity in the offer. It seems far too good of an offer for what it’s supposedly in exchange for, but free food is free food. The woman holds her gaze, and Skye wants to believe the warmth she sees in her eyes.

Still, a girl in her position can’t be too trusting.

“I don’t even know you,” she reminds her, letting a trace of suspicion into her voice.

The woman nods once. “True,” she says, dropping gracefully to her knees on the rug again, the Captain America comics still tucked in one arm against her chest. “I’m Melinda.” She holds out her free hand.

Skye stares at her for a moment, then decides to risk trusting in a little Christmas magic today.

She places her hand carefully in the woman’s. “I’m Skye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are days when I do consciously think to myself, "Isn't it a bad sign that you can make your OTP into a couple or a mother/daughter relationship?"
> 
> ...then I throw my hands up and decide to just be grateful for all the possibilities. ;)


	5. That's a Wrap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A can’t wrap gifts to save their life. Character B is their neighbor and can help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not even sorry for the cheesy title
> 
> I was sooooo busy last week and also in a funk as far as writing goes, but I'm alllllmost done with fall classes now. three more teaching days and then winter break! We'll see how much writing I can get done before Christmas.

It’s eleven thirty-eight on a Thursday night, and Skye is bleeding.

The scissors she had been cutting the wrapping paper with weren’t made to saw through flesh, a fact for which Skye is grateful, but it just makes her more furious at herself as she unleashes a string of curses and leaps up from the carpet, bolting to the kitchen and snatching up a roll of paper towels. She’s managed to only drip blood on her shirt and not on the wrapping paper by the time she has a compress of paper towels to her snipped finger.

 _It’s wrapping gifts. Any monkey can do this without amputating something, you dumbass,_ Skye curses herself internally, biting her lip against the pain and groaning up towards the ceiling. _Nice job, Skye, now you get to wrap gifts with nine fingers instead of ten…_

On the counter a few feet away, her phone screen lights up with a text message. Tucking her throbbing hand beneath her opposite arm to clamp down on the wound, Skye picks up her phone and checks the notification, half-expecting it to be from her boss, changing her mind _again_ about what she wants the color scheme of the office holiday decorations to be…

But the message isn’t from Rosalind, Skye sees as she swipes to unlock her phone. It’s from Melinda, the neighbor in the apartment directly beside hers, a woman whose number Skye only has because of the one time a pipe in their shared wall had been leaking and they’d both been dealing with repairmen and the super for a couple of days.

 _I can hear you yelling through the wall,_ the message reads, and Skye sighs internally, preparing to type an apology for the noise with one thumb.

But then a second message pops up.

_Are you okay? Do you need help?_

More than a little surprised, Skye rereads the messages, clarifying that the words seem to carry a concerned tone, then types back as quickly as she can with one hand.

_Sorry for the noise. I just suck at wrapping gifts, and then I cut myself. And now I’ve gotta wait until the bleeding stops or these packages are going to look like they belong in a Halloween set, not a Christmas one. Thanks for asking though._

Setting her phone back on the counter, Skye carefully peels back the paper towel to check the wound. It looks like it’s finally clotted acceptably, but she isn’t willing to risk it starting to bleed all over the wrapping paper again, so she moves towards the bathroom to hunt for a band-aid.

Before she gets to the doorway, however, there’s a knock on her front door.

Though she guesses who it might be as she approaches, Skye is still surprised to see Melinda on the other side when she checks the peephole.

“Thought you might need this,” the woman says, holding up a small white plastic box as Skye opens the door. Melinda is dressed down in yoga pants and a fleece pullover, her feet stuffed in a pair of slippers. “First aid kit.”

Still surprised by the woman’s arrival, it takes Skye more than the normal amount of time to respond.

“Uh, thanks,” she finally says, reaching out with her uninjured hand and taking the box.

“Do you want some help finishing the wrapping?” Melinda asks, not moving immediately from her spot on Skye’s doormat. “You’re already up pretty late.”

“Are you offering because you don’t want my grumbling and swearing to keep you up all night?” Skye says, to which Melinda only shrugs.

“Four hands—or maybe three if your left one’s out of commission—work faster than two.”

Deciding there’s no reason to turn the offer down, Skye steps back from the door, and Melinda moves into the small living room.

“How long have you been at this?” her neighbor asks, surveying the chaos of wrapping paper, tape, bows, and boxes strewn across the carpet. Without saying anything, she picks up the bloody scissors and carries them to the kitchen sink to rinse them off.

“Too long,” Skye grumbles, setting the first air kit on the counter and popping the lid. “I don’t think I’d ever wrapped a box in my life before this afternoon.”

“Never?” Melinda repeats from the sink as she dries off the scissors, and Skye keeps her eyes on the bandages she’s riffling through.

“Nope,” she says instead of detailing the trail of foster homes and friends’ sofas she’s lived on throughout the years. Not really circumstances that usually came with generous Christmases and birthdays.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Melinda says, taking Skye’s hand before she can protest and dabbing it carefully with an alcohol pad to clean it.

“Thanks,” Skye says, avoiding her eyes as the woman applies the bandage carefully to her finger.

“I take it this is something work-related then, since all these boxes are empty?” Melinda says, glancing at the stack of messily-wrapped boxes that Skye had managed to finish before injuring herself.

“Yeah. My boss wants the office dressed up for the month of December. White and gold wonderland. But she’s got fancy tastes, and I thought wrapping gifts was the safest job to assign myself. I forgot my limits.”

“Well, you’re not off to a bad start,” Melinda says, picking up one of the packages and adjusting a corner of paper, re-taping it so that it lays flat. “How many packages are you supposed to bring in tomorrow?”

Skye points at the pile of empty shoeboxes, cakeboxes, stationary boxes, and packing boxes still sulking in the corner of the room.

“Enough to look like Santa was there,” Skye says glumly. “’Magical’ I believe was her exact assignment.”

Melinda groans, and Skye can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Some people…”

The woman clears a space on the card table that Skye’s been using for _everything_ since she moved in and unfurls a roll of white and silver wrapping paper.

“Grab the next box and I’ll walk you through it. You can be the tape dispenser.”

Melinda turns out to be a methodical worker, seeming to go to a quiet place in her head while she wraps box after box, but the silence doesn’t feel uncomfortable to Skye. She pulls and tears piece after piece of tape while Melinda wraps the boxes, and it’s not much after midnight when all the packages are suddenly done.

“Did you do a stint in a mall or something?” Skye jokes as they stack the packages by the door for Skye to carry out in the morning.

“Everyone has to pay their dues and work a Christmas retail job at least once,” Melinda shrugs, adding the last pile of boxes to the top of the stack. “How are you planning to get all this to your office tomorrow?”

“I have a van,” Skye answers. “They’ll fit fine.”

“What time will you go to work in the morning?” Melinda asks. “Maybe I can help you carry them down to the garage—save you a trip.”

Surprised for the tenth time in the past hour, Skye feels the need to finally push back against the generosity.

“You’ve already done so much,” she says. “I can manage. At least they’re empty.”

“Well, if you change your mind you have my number,” Melinda says, slipping her feet back into the house shoes that she left by Skye’s door.

Realizing suddenly that she might have misread the situation, Skye decides to take a risk.

“We should do this again sometime,” she says, catching Melinda’s eye as she opens the door for her.

Her neighbor pauses on the way out, then looks over at Skye with a glint in her eye.

“How about my place next time? Maybe with less blood and wrapping paper and more wine and bad Hallmark Christmas movies?”

“Sounds perfect,” Skye says, daring to smile more brightly. “Thanks again for your help tonight.”

As she shuts the door, Skye looks at the stack of wrapped gifts and tries to count just how many things in the past hour have surprised her.


	6. ER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A and Character B meet in the ER on Christmas Eve.

Melinda turns over another page of the forms on the clipboard and sighs, clicking her pin annoyedly once before filling in her name, her husband’s name, their dates of birth, their social security numbers, their current address…all over again for the umpteenth time that night. Around her, a pair of lit Christmas trees twinkle pleasantly, decorated with stock color-coordinated sets of plastic orb ornaments and tinsel, but they do little to distract from the grim reality of the situation—she’s in the ER on Christmas Eve. It’s been a couple of hours since Phil was rushed through the ER and into surgery, and Melinda has done little more than fill out paperwork since then with not a single update from the doctors through the swinging doors. She guesses it’s a good thing that the ER is relatively deserted at this hour of the holiday, but the quiet has left her alone with her thoughts and paperwork for far too long.

She glances up as the automatic doors to the drop-off area hiss open and some other unlucky person staggers in from the cold. It’s a young woman who’s certainly not dressed warmly enough for the temperature outside—jeans and a zip-up hoodie, thin sneakers that look soaked through with snow, no hat or gloves. Her brown hair is dusted with snow that immediately melts in the heat of the waiting room as she stumbles towards the desk, her wet shoes leaving squelching footprints across the linoleum.

Even from where she’s sitting, Melinda can hear her teeth chattering.

Instinct makes her set the clipboard aside and get quickly to her feet, and sure enough, the girl slips once, then stumbles a second time. By the time she slips again, Melinda is near enough to catch her.

“She’s freezing!” she says in her strongest tone in the direction of the help desk, feeling the tremors in the girl’s body as soon as she touches her and the temperature as soon as she wraps her in a tight hold and lowers them both to the ground safely. “Get her a blanket!”

“Let go of me!” the girl gasps around her chattering teeth, shoving weakly against May with a pale hand. “Let go!”

Since the girl is no longer in danger of falling, Melinda releases her, catching sight of the girl’s pale face and her blue lips and fingertips just before two nurses fall on them both, laying the girl out on the floor and quickly covering her with a blanket, calling stats and instructions to one another as another worker rushes to get a gurney. Melinda backs away from the action as they assess the girl and lift her quickly onto the bed as soon as it arrives, but the young woman doesn’t respond as they ask her name or information. The girl is whisked through the doors to the ER within a minute, and Melinda is left beside the puddle from her wet clothes, feeling windblown and confused. Slowly she returns to her chair and the abandoned clipboard, picking it up again and bowing her head once more over the endless lines of insurance information.

“Mrs. Coulson?” A voice from the ER doors a few minutes later makes her jump to her feet, grabbing her bag and pulling it over her shoulder as she goes.

“You can come on back,” the doctor at the door says, smiling in a way she is sure is meant to seem reassuring. “Your husband might still be a little groggy from the anesthesia, but he’s still got his hand and all the fingers on it.”

Phil is in a hospital gown in the bed when she reaches his corner of the ER, his hand thickly-bandaged and held aloft in some kind of brace over his bed.

“Mel,” he groans at the sight of her as she approaches. “They wouldn’t listen—I said I wanted an Iron-Man hand…”

“You gotta keep that one so you can hold Cap’s shield,” Melinda says in response, feeling a shudder of relief at the sight of Phil acting mostly like himself even after major surgery. “And so you can try to defend yourself when I beat you up later for being so stupid.”

“Next time, carve your turkey with a carving knife, just like the rest of us fools,” the doctor deadpans, folding his arms and looking sternly down at Phil. “Although, thank you for the story—I’m sure I’ll be the only doctor at the meeting next week who can say they treated an axe injury that was from a turkey-carving attempt.”

Melinda manages to laugh a little, then listens while the doctor fills them both in on the treatment, recovery, and physical therapy that’s going to run their lives for the next few months. She gets a tiny bit distracted, however, when she glances across the room and sees the young woman from before, still covered up to her chin with blankets but now looking far less pale. She has an oxygen cannula in her nose and a nurse rubbing feeling back into her feet beneath the blankets, her soggy shoes and cut-away clothes in a plastic sack at the foot of her bed.

None of their friends are in town for the holiday, so when the doctor says that Phil will need to stay in the hospital for at least one night and that someone ought to bring him an overnight bag, Melinda knows she’ll have to make the trip herself. On the way out, she sneaks a peek at the chart at the foot of the girl’s bed.

_JANE DOE, admitted 12.24.2005 20.45, hypothermia_

Melinda can’t stop thinking about the girl on her drive home, so she makes a couple of extra stops on the way back.

~

When Skye wakes up beneath bright lights and too many blankets, she realizes right away that she’s in a hospital. More importantly, she can’t see any member of her current foster family anywhere in sight, which is something. Hopefully, it means that between the police, hospital security, and the parents, no one has tracked her down yet.

She’d known it was risky, walking into a hospital when she had literally nothing on her—not an ID, a key, or a dollar—but by that time, she’d been in the cold for far too long and had been unable to think of another option. She hadn’t been willing to risk stopping in any of the few stores still open on Christmas Eve, afraid that someone would call the cops on “the runaway in aisle three”, but she’d mistakenly headed down a road that had few and fewer options of warm places to hide until she abruptly rounded a corner and saw the lights of the hospital.

She has no idea what time it is or what day it is now, but hopefully, she can bide her time here a little longer before slipping away, hopefully before anyone comes looking for her.

There is enough movement around her that she’s pretty sure she’s in an ER or ICU, and it doesn’t take long for a nurse to come around to check on her. Skye pretends to be asleep throughout the check, and when the nurse leaves again, she cracks one eye and spots an Asian woman across the hall watching her knowingly. The woman is dressed in regular clothes—no scrubs or white coat—and isn’t carrying a clipboard or wearing a DHS badge, so Skye assumes that she’s a visitor. The woman glances subtly around at the activity in the area around them before taking a few steps across the hall, approaching Skye’s bed with a blue backpack held in one hand.

“You dropped this in the waiting room last night,” she says, not waiting for Skye to speak. The woman tucks the bag beneath the blankets at the foot of the bed, meeting Skye’s eyes as she does. “You should be more careful. Someone could have stolen that. I wouldn’t let something like that out of my sight.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just gives her a small, sad smile and closes the curtain around Skye’s bed as she leaves. Suspicious and more than a little confused, Skye waits only a moment before reaching down beneath the covers and fishing the bag up to lie beneath her arm. It’s bulky but still very light, which is confusing, and Skye peeks beneath the blankets as she tugs the zipper open.

Inside, she finds a wrapped-up down coat, a pair of waterproof gloves, a knitted hat, and a few pairs of wool socks. Tucked in the bottom of the big pocket is an envelope that Skye can immediately tell contains cash, and between the bills, she finds a note scribbled on the back of a business card that contains one name but two phone numbers.

_Call day or night if you need anything._

_Merry Christmas_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I briefly considered making May the ER doctor, just as a shout-out to Ming's days as a regular on ER, but that might be an idea for a longer fic.
> 
> And god knows I don't need another long fic on my plate right now...


	7. Just Your Cup of Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two prompts together today:
> 
> Character A is stuck working in a coffee shop on Christmas Day and Character B is the lonely soul spending their whole day there. + It’s Character A/B’s first Christmas since a tragedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sorry for the title but I swear this one isn't super shippy

Daisy tries not to shiver as she slips the key into the lock and cranks the lock open. It’s still dark, fairly typical for a mid-December morning, but the quiet on the streets is unique for a Monday.

_Makes sense—everyone’s still at home in bed. If their kids haven’t already woken them up for gifts, at least…_

She steps into the back room of the café and re-locks the door, flipping on the lights and cranking up the heat. Her opening duties feel fairly routine by now, so she is able to forget that it’s Christmas Day until it’s time to unlock the front door and she has to move a wreath out of the way to do it. Though most businesses would normally remain closed at least until evening on the holiday, this café is next to a hospital and is supposed to keep its usual hours for the sake of the hospital staff and visiting family. It’s still a skeleton crew though, and Daisy is managing only one other worker for the morning shift that day.

She gets the decorations out of the way and unlocks the door just as Elena climbs out of her car in the corner of the lot. The woman rushes across the lot with impressive speed, seeming to materialize out of the darkness in front of the door, which Daisy opens for her.

“Merry Christmas!” she murmurs as her friend hurries into the warm café.

“Feliz Navidad!” her friend answers, bouncing slightly on her feet as she unbundles herself from her scarf, hat, and coat and stuffs them beneath the front counter. “You unpack the delivery yet?”

The morning is only a tiny bit more relaxed than usual, with a steady stream of doctors and nurses still coming through the drive-thru for their morning caffeine and the occasional front customer doing a coffee run for someone in the hospital. Daisy stays so busy in the window that it’s not until after nine o’clock that she finally glances at anything beyond the line at the front register and notices a woman sitting by herself at one of the tables in the café, a mug and a book in front of her. This in itself is not terribly strange, but the fact that she’s still there at one o’clock and has barely moved in that time _is._ Daisy takes a mop from behind the counter and goes to clean the area between the door and the counter, peeking at the woman’s drink as she does.

“On the house,” she says later when she brings the woman another mug of the tea drink she’d had before. It’s Christmas, after all, and there’s rarely a good reason for anyone to camp out alone at a café this long on a holiday.

The woman seems surprised, but she smiles as Daisy sets the drink down on her table.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“Taking a break from the hospital?” Daisy guesses, glancing at the impressive edifice across the parking lot.

The woman shakes her head, glancing down.  
“No. Just…nowhere else to be today.”

The honesty throws Daisy for a moment, and she immediately feels her heart ache in commiseration.

“How many years?” she asks quietly, figuring that if her assumption is correct, the woman will understand the meaning of her question.

And from the way she looks up at Daisy, she can tell she was right on the mark.

“My husband died this spring,” the woman answers, each word heavy. “I didn’t do Christmas before he was in my life, so it feels wrong to do it now. But work’s closed, gym’s closed, and I didn’t want to sit alone in our house all day…”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Daisy says quietly, still standing formally by the table, smoothing her hands self-consciously over her apron. “I um…I know it’s not the same, but I lost both my parents last year, and…I know what you mean about being alone on the holiday. It’s the worst.”

The woman looks surprised beneath pitying as she looks up at Daisy. “I’m sorry for your loss too,” she says, her gaze sincere.

“It…well…time helps, but it doesn’t make _everything_ better. That’s why I volunteered for this shift today,” Daisy says with a shrug. “Makes it easier to forget on days when forgetting’s tough.”

The woman nods, glancing down again. “Thank you for the drink,” she says, and Daisy smiles, sensing her dismissal, crossing her fingers for Christmas magic and daring to try something different.

“Hey, I know we’re strangers, but if you’d rather not go home later…”

The woman glances up, seeming curious, so Daisy takes a deep breath and offers the best she can.

“My shift ends in about an hour and a half, and when my friend gets off at three, we were going to go see a movie, then get dinner and drive around and look at Christmas lights. If you want to join us…”

She trails off, but the woman smiles, seeming touched.

“It’s nice of you to offer, but I wouldn’t want to wedge myself into your plans.”

“You’re not wedging—I invited you,” Daisy reminds her, propping one hand on her hip pointedly.

The woman bows her head over her book again, and she is quiet so long that Daisy wonders if she’s being dismissed for real this time. Feeling awkward all of a sudden, she turns slowly back towards the counter and takes up her station by the drive-thru window again, confused and somehow a little disappointed. She manages to glance back at the customer only once throughout the next hour, but their eyes don’t meet. The woman continues to stoically read her book and drink her tea, and Daisy realizes then that she never asked her name.

About twenty minutes before her shift ends, she is in the middle of her changeover duties when she straightens up from a cabinet and sees the woman standing by the register. Elena is already helping her, and though the woman glances in Daisy’s direction and smiles briefly, she walks out before Daisy is able to get back up to the front.

“She said you invited her to go along with us tonight,” Elena says when Daisy reaches her. “She doesn’t strike you as the kind of person who would kill us both and steal the car, does she?”

“I don’t think so,” Daisy says, watching out the front window as the woman climbs into a black SUV. “Her car’s a lot nicer than mine anyway.”

“She also said to give this to you,” Elena says with a smirk in her voice, and Daisy looks over as her friend holds out a napkin.

Written on it is a phone number and a brief message.

_Let me know time and place when you pick your movie, if the offer’s still on the table._

Instead, Daisy slips her phone out of her apron pocket and texts her a different message.

_You never told me your name._

A few minutes later, a reply arrives.

_Melinda._

Smiling, Daisy shows the message to Elena as she responds.

_I’m Daisy. Me and Elena will be at Tinseltown by the highway at 3:50. See you there._


	8. Coast to Coast Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A and Character B both sign up for a Christmas Pen Pal project to exchange postcards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if either of them would do snail mail. 
> 
> So I modified it.

“I actually _can’t_ believe you.”

“You don’t have to sound so scandalized. I’m just throwing it out there.”

“You put my information on a public website without asking me—of course I’m scandalized. Aren’t we supposed to be secret agents?”

“Aren’t we.” Her friend gives her a pointed look, reminding her that though they may still work for the same organization, her new position is far less security-sensitive than her previous one. Annoyed by this point, Melinda grits her teeth.

“I don’t need you going behind my back like this, even if you mean well,” she says, holding her ground. “I don’t need babysitting. I just need time.”

“You’re probably right,” Coulson says, looking sad even as he admits it. “But since you won’t promise to go anywhere over the holiday, and I’m about to head to Belarus, I just want you to have someone to talk to if you need it.”

“I divorced a shrink for a reason,” Melinda mutters, turning away. “Have fun on your mission.”

“At least consider it, May,” her friend calls as she leaves him standing in the atrium of the Triskellion. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Though Melinda can’t ignore the confirmation email in her inbox every time she checks her messages throughout the rest of the day, it’s not until she’s home alone that evening that she finally gives it a real look.

 _Thank you for signing up for Christmas Pen Pals,_ it reads. _To begin, simply follow the link below to set your preferences and begin a conversation. Happy correspondence!_

Sighing heavily, Melinda almost deletes the message and calls it a night. But it’s late on at night on Christmas Eve, and she can tell she’s not tired enough to not stay awake with her thoughts for a long time. So instead, Melinda follows the link, downloads the app, and sets her preferences to chat only with women.

_Too many men have already been in my business today…_

It takes only a few moments for the program to pair her with a random stranger, opening a text box and prompting them to chat. Melinda waits, somewhat suspiciously, for the other person to start the conversation. When they finally do, it’s innocuous enough.

**Hi**

Melinda eyes the message for a moment before finally typing back.

_Hello_

**I’m Skye** , the next message reads, and Melinda narrows her eyes at her screen.

_Is that your real name?_

**No**

Surprised by the honesty, she offers a trade.

_I’m Melinda_

**Is that your real name?**

_Yes_

**Okay**.

Unsure of where to go from there, Melinda waits, and finally, the other person sends her a question.

**So youre alone for the holidays too?**

_In a way._

**Whats your story?**

_My husband and I split up this year, and I only did Christmas with him. My best friend wanted to make sure I didn’t get too depressed and off myself while alone on the holiday._

**Are you suicidal?**

_No. Doesn’t stop him from worrying though._

**Do you want to talk about it?**

_Not really._

_What’s your story?_

**I invented this app.**

_Really_

**No, of course not. I did write some code for the website though. Liked the sound of the concept so I signed up.**

_That your day job? Writing code?_

**One of them. Whats yours?**

_I’m a secret agent._

**Aren’t we all.**

Melinda smiles at the screen. It doesn’t really matter if this person believes her or not.

_Where are you writing from?_

**West coast, USA. You?**

_East coast._

**Isn’t it late there?**

_It is._

**What were you planning to do tomorrow?**

_Same old, minus going in to work. Work out. Read. Go for a run._

**Youre making me feel bad about my habits.**

_What are you doing tomorrow?_

**Scrounging message boards for more programming work. Probably getting drunk alone at some point.**

Concerned, Melinda purses her lips before making an offer.

_Why don’t you call me instead?_

The other woman seems to pause before replying.

**Why would I do that?**

_Because I’ll probably be drinking too._

**So is this a date? Are we getting drinks and hanging out?**

_It can be. I am single now._

**So you’re bi?**

_Looks that way, doesn’t it?_

**Me too.**

_Cool. Nice job on the website. You’ve already found yourself a date._

**What time should I call you tomorrow?**

_Really any time. My day is flexible._

**Can I call you now?**

Melinda thinks about it, then decides that if this turns out to be a doozy, at least she can get it out of the way now and not ruin her day off tomorrow.

_Sure._

She sends her phone number.

Less than a minute later, her phone rings with an unknown number.

“Hello?” she says, bringing the phone to her ear.

“Melinda,” a woman’s voice on the other side says. “My real name is Daisy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost midnight on Christmas Eve where I am. Merry Christmas, everyone!


	9. Someone Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A has to dress up as Santa for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the scene from Elf that never fails to crack me up Christmas after Christmas. I know this one's short, but I wanted to end this series on a high note ;)

“Sometime today, Mel, perhaps while it’s still Christmas?”

Melinda’s voice returns through the bathroom door of their shared room, “Forgive me for wanting to delay my grand entrance as long as possible.” She sounds only slightly huffy, and Daisy grins to herself.

“It’s your own fault for losing the bet,” Daisy reminds her girlfriend, sitting down on their bed and tapping her foot anxiously. “You should have known better than to challenge me in my prime.”

“I don’t think you should be as proud as you are that you can binge-drink that much,” Melinda calls back, sounding slightly annoyed.

“Can binge-drink that much and still throw darts straight,” Daisy reminds her, pulling out her phone. “Your eyes getting bad in your old age?”

“Ho, ho, ho, shall I put you on the naughty list?” Melinda returns dryly as Daisy checks her messages.

“Okay the group chat is literally blowing up right now,” she says, flipping through the pictures already being shared of the Christmas party that all their co-workers are miraculously all attending. “More than a few people are wondering why Santa’s so late.”

“Santa’s supposed to be off work on Christmas Day.”

“Santa shouldn’t have lost the damn bet,” Daisy says, getting to her feet again and stuffing her phone in her pocket. “Come on, Mel, you knew the rules—loser has to wear a Santa outfit for two hours at the Christmas party, which is now two hours from being over. Now suck it up and hurry up.”

There is only silence on the other side for a moment, then finally,

“Okay, I’m coming out.”

Daisy quickly pulls her phone from her pocket again and opens the video camera function, pointing it in the direction of the bathroom door.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Santa Claus!” she announces to no one as the door opens with dramatic slowness…and then she nearly drops her phone.

Daisy stares at May, a dubious grin frozen on her face, unable to believe the sight.

“You…” she manages to gasp once she’s able to speak again. “That’s cheating.”

Melinda shrugs, taking a step towards her on a black-booted foot.

“You’re the one who didn’t specify a fat suit and beard—you just said Santa. Red suit, white trim, black boots—how does this not count?”

Daisy looks her girlfriend up and down once, taking in the white-trimmed red satin teddy and garter-topped black tights emerging from the knee-high black stiletto boots.

“You must get awfully cold up at the North Pole,” she attempts, and Melinda rolls her eyes.

“I bundle up sometimes,” she says, producing a Santa hat from behind her back and fitting it over her head. “There,” she says, and the ridiculousness of the moment finally makes Daisy burst into laughter.

“I probably should make you go down to the party anyway, just to show this off,” she finally says when her laughter tapers off, and Melinda sighs with a smile.

“Turn the phone off and get over here and unwrap your gift, Daisy,” Melinda says, hands landing impatiently on her hips. “After all, there’s only two hours of Christmas left.”


	10. City of Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Ashley: Skye gets sick over Christmas and May takes care of her. In the City of Lights.
> 
> Bus Family era
> 
> Fills AoS Advent prompts 'Together' and 'Light'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ashley. Thanks for waiting a whole year--hope you enjoy!

They’re in Paris, and it’s supposed to be a lot more magical than this.

The Bus had landed here at an ungodly local hour the night before, but Coulson had already told them they’d stay the night on the plane in order to get a little more rest without a midnight shuffle off to a hotel, even if the services had been better. Throughout their flight across the Atlantic, Skye had felt a headache slowly take up residence in her skull and had retired early to her bunk for Tylenol and an early night. But now, as she stirs awake to the sounds of life outside her door, she immediately greeted by a fresh headache.

Among other things.

Someone is knocking on her door, and she groans in response to the inquiry from the other side.

“Skye?” Coulson’s voice filters through. “Ten-minute warning. Maintenance is here, and we need to clear the plane.”

She groans again in acknowledgement and moves to lever herself out of bed, but as soon as she attempts to sit up a wave of pain washes over her body. Her sharp inhale snags on the tickle in her throat, and Skye doesn’t manage to stop coughing for several seconds.

_Great. Just what I wanted for Christmas—the flu._

Simmons had only released her from the medical pod two days ago, after the run-in with the Asgardians in the southwest had finally been resolved. They had spent a day getting the plane fixed up enough to fly and getting the mind-controlled men (Ward and Fitz included) cleared by Medical before Coulson announced their summons from SHIELD top brass. Since this was only SHIELD’s fourth known encounter with Asgardians, they were all being called in for debriefing at the Paris base.

No one seemed to care that it was Christmas.

The healing wounds in her abdomen at insult to injury as Skye fights against the coughing fit, which lasts long enough to bring Simmons running.

“Skye? Are you all right?” the doctor’s concerned voice bleeds through the door as Skye finally catches her breath. She manages not to cough as she finally gets herself upright and staggers to the door, holding her blanket around herself because really, when did this plane get this cold?

Simmons looks stricken at the sight of Skye as she slides the door open, immediately reaching to touch her cheek with the back of her hand.

“You’re feverish,” she announces, pushing into the room with Skye and bundling her back into her bed. “Don’t try to get up again. I’ll get you some medicine and go tell Coulson.”

Skye is too exhausted from her short trip across the room to try and protest, but she stays upright, sitting back against the cabin wall with a blanket around herself while she waits for Simmons to come back. Through another round of coughing, she can hear Simmons talking to the others out in the common area, and soon enough, Coulson sticks his head back in, looking worried.

“How long have you been feeling sick?” he asks, staying out of Simmons’ way as she hustles back into Skye’s bunk with a cup of pills and a bottle of orange juice.

Skye only manages to shake her head in response, muscling down the medicine with a mouthful of juice and holding still while Simmons checks her temperature with a forehead scanner thermometer.

“38.7,” she announces as she inspects the screen. “Definitely a fever.”

“What is that in American?” Skye exhales, holding her blanket tighter and fighting a shiver.

“Too high,” Coulson answers for Simmons. “But not dangerous. Simmons, could you help get Skye’s things together? I’ll call Ward to carry her down to the car.”

Skye is too proud to surrender without a fight, but her protests don’t quite register with anyone, since they’re hardly audible through her coughing. Simmons gathers all her essentials into a bag and helps Skye get properly dressed before Ward comes to the door.

“Someone need a lift?” he says, a comparably light teasing as he picks her up easily. Skye can’t come up with anything witty to say in response, just holds her blanket tighter around herself and ducks her head against his chest to avoid eye contact with the others until she’s settled in the SUV.

Simmons stays beside her for the drive out of the hangar to…wherever they’re going, and enough time passes for the pills to kick in and let Skye settle long enough to drift off to a light sleep again. She notices when the car stops and hears everyone exiting, but she decides to wait until it’s absolutely necessary to attempt to move again. Eventually, someone climbs back into the driver’s seat and turns on the engine again, and Skye only raises her head when the car starts moving.

“May, where’re we going?”

The pilot is the only other person in the car now, and the rest of the team is already out of sight as Skye swivels her head to look back.

“Somewhere else,” May answers, not even glancing at Skye in the rearview mirror.

Confused but still too tired to fight, Skye rests her head against the window and watches the unremarkable roads of Paris’s outskirts roll by on the other side until she drifts off again.

~

She wakes up to someone pulling her out of the car.

Instinct makes her flinch and flail for a second, but this immediately triggers another coughing fit and a stab of pain in her abdomen, and whoever is manhandling her sets her immediately back on the car’s seat.

“You should know that it’s hotel policy that anyone the hotel considers a danger to other guests may be asked to leave…” an unfamiliar voice is saying.

“It’s just the flu,” May snaps, sounding close. “And I take responsibility for her, but we won’t be leaving until she’s well.”

Skye manages to crack her eyes open to see a uniformed bellhop holding the handles of a wheelchair set up by the car door, and May, closer, waiting.

“Sorry, I should have given a better warning,” she says in a low voice. She’s donned one of her leather jackets over her SHIELD shirt, and their SUV appears to be in an underground parking garage. “Let me help you get in the chair.”

“I don’t need that,” Skye protests automatically, but May only raises an eyebrow.

“It’s either this or I carry you.”

At this point, Skye knows better than to challenge May (not like she has a fighting chance in this state). So she lowers her head and slides out of the car, feeling aches ripple down her legs as May helps her sit down in the wheelchair.

She tries to get a peek at their surroundings even while keeping her head bowed shamefully as the worker rolls her chair through the garage to an elevator. Thankfully, they seem to forego the lobby and the doors open again on a level that makes Skye’s ears pop. The bellhop takes the lead while May pushes her wheelchair after him over carpet that threatens to swallow the wheels. A swipe of the key card opens the door, and the bellhop sets a doorstop and stands aside while May pushes her in.

Skye is vaguely aware of their bags being set beside the door, of May tipping the worker and sending him on his way, but it’s not until the door closes after him that Skye is able to form a response to her surroundings.

“Is SHIELD paying for this or is this how you usually travel?”

The fact that Skye can’t see a bed or bedroom in any direction hints at the size of the suite, but everything in sight reeks of quality far beyond Skye’s life experience. The furniture, the curtains, even the wallpaper, all look more expensive than any she’s ever touched.

“A little bit of both,” is all May says as she takes up her position pushing the chair again. “Let’s get you to bed.”

~

The room is dark when Skye wakes up again, her head pounding less than before but her body still feeling equally exhausted. Rolling around and groping for something familiar still makes waves of dull pain ripple through her limbs, but at least she doesn’t cough as she forces herself to sit up.

Stumbling towards the nearest door, Skye finds a bathroom bigger than every bedroom she’s ever slept in and manages to use it without incident. The granite floors are cold on her bare feet, and she finds herself wishing for the warmth of the bed before she’s even risen from the toilet.

Once she’s washed her hands, she all but runs for it, coughing the whole way back.

A knock on the door comes a few seconds after she’s slid under the covers again, but May doesn’t wait for a reply before sticking her head in.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice characteristically neutral, but Skye thinks she can see a small pinch of worry on her brow.

“About the same,” Skye answers weakly, not trying to sit up as May slips into the room. She’s carrying a bottle of juice and a bottle of pills.

“Simmons said to take two of these every four hours,” she says, cracking the lid of the medicine bottle and pouring some pills out in her palm. “You’ve been out for five.”

“Thanks,” Skye says, taking them gently from May’s hand and dropping them in her mouth. Before she can try to sit up, the juice is offered to her with a straw, and she is able to swallow them without making a mess.

“What about our debriefing at HQ?” she manages to ask as May caps the pill bottle again and sets it beside the juice on her nightstand.

“We’ll do it when you’re better,” May says simply, leaning over with the scanner thermometer and checking Skye’s temperature again. “We were going to stay here through Christmas anyway.”

May reads the device’s screen with a poker face, so Skye bothers to ask.

“Did I beat my high score?”

“It’s the same as before,” May says, setting the thermometer on the nightstand too. “Keep taking the Tylenol; it should help your fever break sooner.”

She’s opening the nightstand drawers, and Skye eventually sees what she’s after.

“Channels 200-299 are all in English,” May says as she tucks a remote control into Skye’s hand. “And here’s the room service menu if you want anything to eat or drink. Just charge everything to the room.”

“Thanks,” Skye says again, all out of any dignity to preserve. “Any of those channels have Christmas movies?”

Surprisingly, May takes the remote from her grip and turns on the TV on the opposite wall that is almost as wide as the wall. A few flashing clicks later, the middle of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ appears on the screen.

“Twenty-four hour Christmas Classics,” May says, tucking the remote back into Skye’s hands. “I think _A Christmas Story_ is up next.”

This distantly registers as interesting, but Skye is already sinking into her pillow again and falling rapidly towards sleep once more.

“Thanks May,” she murmurs again. “Sorry you got stuck with patient care this Christmas.”

“Don’t say that,” May says quietly, turning to go.

Before Skye can say anything else, May is gone.

~

Skye wakes up the next morning soaked in sweat, the TV still on and playing a noisy scene from _Elf_. Shifting about in the covers, Skye feels none of the aches from yesterday, and the relief makes her overconfident. The tickle in her throat is still there and she coughs plenty before she makes it out of bed, but she’s no longer shivering and no longer useless, so she goes straight to the shower that’s almost as big as her van.

Once clean and bundled in a thick hotel robe, Skye goes in search of food.

Out in the living area, she finds May tucked into one of the sofas, raising her head out of a book as Skye comes into view.

“You’re looking better,” she comments, less tonelessly than usual. She’s wearing a loose t-shirt and yoga pants, a sight that is both disarming and endearing.

“I feel better,” Skye answers with a smile, pushing her wet hair out of her face. “And I’m starving.”

“Good,” May says, setting her book aside and getting to her feet. “I was wondering if you had any requests for a Christmas dinner.”

_That’s right…it’s Christmas Day…_

Skye is suddenly embarrassed, being reminded that May has spent her vacation time holed up in this hotel with her.

“What are you feeling?” Skye offers, following May to the kitchen counter where she is unfolding the (extensive) room service menu.

“Food,” May answers simply, pushing the menu in Skye’s direction. “Circle what you want and I’ll call it down.”

Skye goes to dress and dry her hair while they wait for their order, and by the time she reemerges from her bedroom, May is receiving a food cart at the suite’s door.

“Colorado omelet and short stack,” she says, checking under the lids and setting a plate at one place at the table. “And a banana split. And a cheeseburger.”

“It’s Christmas,” Skye says shamelessly, pulling the pancakes in front of herself first. “And my tank is literally empty right now.”

“No judgment here,” May says, and Skye notices there are three plates landing at May’s place too.

“What made the cut for your Christmas dinner?” Skye asks around a giant bite of pancakes.

The lids disappear, and Skye sees a fresh fruit platter, yogurt and granola…and a large pepperoni pizza.

“Gotta have it both ways,” May says with a disarming smirk in Skye’s direction as she stows the lids on the food cart before sitting down and tucking in.

Once they’re both full and the leftovers are packed into in the kitchenette’s fridge, Skye finally ventures to a window to get a look at their view.

“May…are we in a penthouse suite?” she asks at the sight of the city of Paris laid out beneath them.

“It was the only room available on such short notice on Christmas Eve,” May calls back from the other bedroom, where she seems to be getting dressed. A moment later, she reemerges in a dark green sweater and her usual black jeans, though her feet are still bare.

“Do you want to stay in today? I can always go out and hunt for some open shops if you want anything the hotel can’t send up.”

“Not a chance—who knows if I’ll ever be in Paris on Christmas again!” Skye says, starting to hunt for her shoes. “I might not last long, but can we at least hit up the main sights before I crash?”

With the majority of the population shut away in their homes, at least for the morning, the two of them seem to have the streets of Paris nearly to themselves. The underground is still running, so it is easy enough to shuttle to the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre (even if it is closed, the building and grounds are stunning). By the time they make it to the Île de la Cité and Notre Dame, Skye has nearly run out of energy, but is trying her best not to show it. She takes a dozen pictures of the magnificent building and even drags May into a selfie (which the woman _almost_ smiles for). There are a lot more people around the church, and Skye suddenly realizes why.

“There must be a Christmas mass or something,” she says, watching the knots of people disappearing into the church’s entrance.

“Do you want to go in?” May offers, her tone giving Skye no clue whether it’s something she would like to do.

“I don’t necessarily want to hear the service…but it would be nice to sit down for a bit,” Skye answers carefully.

May is already moving forward. “Let’s go then.”

They find seats off to one side in the back, and Skye genuflects automatically as they turn into the row. She discretely snaps a few more photos of the vaulting ceilings and stained glass windows as they wait for the service to begin. The scent of incense hangs in the air, and a little even seems to linger in the space above them, thickening the air into a hazy light. May scans the (French) bulletin, and Skye “reads” over her shoulder.

“I’ve never been to a church service,” the woman admits quietly, not raising her eyes from the paper.

“Jumping in the deep end today, aren’t you?” Skye says, smiling. “You probably shouldn’t go down for Communion then.”

May shrugs minutely. “Is that how it works?”

“Yeah, unless you want to go down and receive a blessing. Just do whatever everyone else is doing except when they all get up and go down front.”

May doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the service, though she does stand, sit and kneel with everyone else as they go through the service. Skye recites the prayers (in English) with the congregation, the words coming back to her without thinking, but she finds herself avoiding May’s curious glance when they sit down again.

“It was a Catholic orphanage,” she feels the need to whisper.

She doesn’t go down for Communion.

Back in the wet winter air an hour later, May leads her towards a Metro station, only speaking again once they’re on the platform waiting for their train.

“You don’t believe in God.”

It’s not an incorrect statement, but the words are still jarring to hear.

“Why do you think that?” Skye says, glancing slightly suspiciously in May’s direction.

“I heard you say it to Hannah when we were on the mission in Utah,” May says, not facing her. “She asked if you believed, and you said you didn’t.”

“People believe what they need to believe,” Skye mutters, throwing out some of May’s receipts too. “I’d rather not believe that there’s a big man in the sky casting down all the pain I’ve lived through. It’s easier to just believe that this world sucks except when we make it right.”

May doesn’t say anything else, and soon their train sails into the station, breaking the spell.

Back at the hotel, May walks Skye all the way up to the room and recommends a nap while she goes out again to find some dinner. Skye doesn’t need to be told twice, collapsing on her bed and falling asleep almost instantly.

When she wakes up to another dark sky outside the window with the shimmering City of Lights stretched out beneath it, Skye pads out to the living room and finds May stretched out on the sofa, the TV turned to a the Christmas movie channel and several Chinese takeout containers lined up on the table in front of her.

“Still feeling better?” she asks as Skye comes into view, sitting up and eyeing her concernedly.

“Yeah, just exhausted still,” Skye says, sitting down on the same sofa with a decent amount of space between them. “What’d you order?”

Plenty, it turns out, and the two of them don’t make much of a dent in the feast while _The Santa Clause_ plays out on the big screen. Skye has never seen this movie and finds herself laughing plenty, even catching some soft laughter out of May, she thinks.

“What did your family do for Christmas?” Skye eventually asks, feeling brave during a quieter moment of the film.

“We didn’t do Christmas,” May answers lightly, not looking at her. “It’s not a big holiday in China if you’re not a Christian, and my parents didn’t make it a big thing even though we lived in the States. Everybody was off work and out of school though, so we’d usually go visit out of town family or friends and cook a big dinner together.”

Skye is silent in the wake of this answer, more words then she’s ever heard May say in a single sitting.

“Is that why you like Christmas movies?” she eventually asks, keeping her eyes on the TV screen.

In the corner of her eye, May shrugs. “I wouldn’t have known what an American Christmas looked like without movies.”

May doesn’t ask Skye about her own Christmas traditions, an omission for which Skye is grateful. If May knows about her foster home history, she knows Skye never did anything long enough for it to be a tradition. If she knows she was a runaway who eventually lived in a van, she can assume there wasn’t much Christmas-ing to speak of.

“This has been a really good Christmas,” Skye says quietly instead, stretching one foot out and nudging May gently with her toe. “Thanks for taking such good care of me.”

May still doesn’t look at her, but her hand does fall to rest lightly over Skye’s ankle.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” May whispers, her hand cool and steady, just like the rest of her. “Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not Catholic and have only been to one Catholic service in my life, so anyone please feel free to tell me if I bungled anything.
> 
> Also, for those of you who have been following my foster journey--my little one was adopted by a local family at the end of December! I miss her terribly but am glad to know that she's now with the family who will get to love her for the rest of her life. And in related news, today was Gotcha day in the States for my best friend who has been fostering two little girls since last November. They're now officially a family of five, and I'm so happy for them!


	11. A Wonderful Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Character A can’t travel to see their family on Christmas, so they invite their grumpy loner neighbor Character B"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always weak for Daisy having a mad crush on May, mutual or not. If that isn't your thing, maybe take a pass on this chapter.
> 
> Merry Christmas Eve!

This is not the first Christmas Daisy spent alone. She’s been through the routine plenty of times and remembers her two soundest methods of dealing with lonely holidays down to a routine—get all shopping done the day before and have a loose game plan on how to fill the hours. Labelling the day as a ‘drunk day off’ sounds nice but has never really turned out well, so even though she has a cheap bottle of wine stowed in the cabinet for emergencies, Daisy doesn’t plan on spending the day inebriated. Evening, maybe, but not the whole day.

She doesn’t usually attempt anything exceptional in the way of cooking, but reliable income and her lack of health insurance have led Daisy to attempt to eat slightly healthier in recent months. She knows how to cut and cook fresh vegetables now, even if she does it extremely slowly, she knows how to make rice, pasta, and quick breads. It’s a far cry from her fruit, granola, and jerky diet when she was still living out of her car with no kitchen, but even if it is Christmas today, Daisy doesn’t plan to try anything fancy.

It’s past five that evening and all the ingredients are in the pot, and her first attempt at bulked-up spaghetti sauce doesn’t smell half bad as Daisy stirs it over the burner. While she waits for the water for the pasta to boil, listens to her neighbor hammering away at her piano through the living room wall. Not Christmas music—the woman never plays Christmas music—but something that sounds a little on the melancholy side. Daisy pictures her seated at the piano, her gorgeous dark curls hanging in her face as she plays…alone on Christmas Day.

Feeling brave, Daisy picks up her phone.

It’s Christmas…it couldn’t hurt to ask.

_Are you home alone tonight too?_

A good eight minutes creep by before the music stops, and Daisy sees her phone light up a moment later.

_Yeah. Sorry, do you want me to lay off the piano?_

The tone makes Daisy respond quickly.

_No, just wanted to ask if you wanted to come over for dinner. I’ve got a lot of spaghetti (but fair warning, it’s my first time trying to cook it)…_

She has to toss her phone aside to turn down the flame as the pot of pasta suddenly begins boiling over, hissing on the burner, and by the time everything is under control again, there are two messages waiting.

_Thanks…I might take you up on that. I was just going to be eating leftovers tonight._

_I have some wine I could contribute._

Daisy glances towards the cabinet where her cheapest-on-the-shelf wine is stowed.

 _I’m sure it’s nicer than any drink I could offer you,_ she texts back, turning on her oven for the garlic bread.

 _Want some help with the cooking?_ Melinda responds, and Daisy’s heartbeat betrays the coolness she tries to project in her response.

_Everything’s almost done, but you can come over and hang out now if you want._

A few moments later, Daisy hears a knock and quickly turns off both burners before going to answer the door. _Better safe than sorry…_

She’s a little disarmed at the sight of her neighbor’s messy bun and oversized sweater and leggings—in all the times they’ve ridden the elevator together or passed each other in the hall or lobby, Daisy has only ever seen Melinda in office-worthy outfits and makeup. Today, she might as well be wearing pajamas.  

“Hope red is okay,” Melinda says, holding out the bottle, and Daisy hopes she’s not blushing as she takes it. The texture of the label hints at quality far beyond her tax bracket.

“It’s perfect,” she says, stepping aside. “Come on in.”

Daisy is keenly aware that she’s had all of three conversations with this woman before this, and all three of them were about the broken pipe in their shared wall last year. That's the only reason she has her neighbor’s number. She feels suddenly self-conscious, wondering how her barely-furnished apartment looks to outside eyes. At least ‘Clean your shit up’ had been first on her to-do list for filling her hours today.

“Family not around?” Melinda asks as she follows Daisy into the kitchen, and Daisy shrugs.

“Something like that,” she says, flipping the burners back on and digging her corkscrew out of a drawer. “Mind opening that?” she says, passing the bottle back to Melinda.

“Have some glasses?” the woman asks, and Daisy knows she’s blushing when she answers.

“These okay?” she asks, pulling down two plastic cups from a cabinet, cups that are of two different colors, sizes, and restaurant logos.

But Melinda only smiles. “Perfect,” she says, getting to work on the bottle.

Daisy keeps herself busy at the stove and is a little startled by the woman’s hand on her back as she slips in next to her.

“Smells good,” she says, offering Daisy one of the cups, now half-full of wine.

“Keep your expectations low,” Daisy deflects, plucking out a strand of spaghetti to check whether it’s done. It seems soft enough, but this is certainly the time for a second opinion.

“Does that feel done to you?” she asks Melinda, offering her the strand. Rather than pinching it though, Melinda takes the noodle and tosses it against the wall above the stove. The strand holds fast, and Daisy’s mouth falls open.

“Yep, it’s done,” Melinda says, plucking the spaghetti off the wall and tossing it in the trash can. “Do you have a colander? I can drain it for you.”

Daisy doesn’t, but Melinda still is able to drain the water into the sink using the pot lid, and Daisy manages to pull the garlic bread out with only a slight browning on the edges. Soon they’re dishing up plates, and Daisy finds herself blushing again when she realizes what she should have thought of sooner.

“I don’t have a table…”

“It’s all good,” Melinda says, tucking a fork under the noodles on each plate. “We can eat on your sofa, or we can carry it over to my place.”

Daisy is guessing that any apartment nice enough to have a piano doesn’t deserve to have plastic dishes come through the door.

“Sofa’s good. I can turn on a Christmas movie if you want.”

“Only if we make it a drinking game,” Melinda says with a disarming nudge of her elbow as she follows Daisy to the sofa.

Daisy doesn’t have a TV either, but she opens her laptop on the second-hand coffee table and pulls up _A Christmas Story_ , which she’d downloaded a couple of days ago.

“Oh, perfect—take a drink every time he says ‘BB gun’,” Melinda challenges, tucking one leg up under herself and digging into her pasta.

Daisy is surprised by how decent her spaghetti sauce tastes, but more surprised by how quickly she goes through the wine in her cup—this kid sure wants his BB gun for Christmas. She tries to cushion her stomach with garlic bread and spaghetti in between drinks, but soon enough she feels the warmth creeping up her neck.

_Damn Asian genes…can’t even make it through half the movie…_

Despite appearing Asian herself, Melinda seems to be holding her liquor much better than Daisy. She’s also eating her plate with gusto, something that makes Daisy feel rather proud of herself as she sets her own empty plate aside and sinks further into the couch. She still forgets to protest when Melinda refills their cups.

They’re both giggling a little messily by the final scene of the movie as the family leaves their ruined Christmas dinner on the kitchen floor and heads out to a local Chinese restaurant for dinner.

“Augh, this is the most racist scene in any Christmas movie,” Melinda groans as the movie cuts to three Chinese waiters singing about decking the “harrs” with boughs of “horry”.

_Fa ra ra ra ra, ra ra ra ra…_

“That’s not even a problem Chinese people have with English. It’s a Japanese thing,” Melinda mutters, stretching her toned legs out and propping them on the coffee table.

“Well, Christmas movies are a white-people thing anyway. What do you expect?” Daisy says, leaning Melinda’s direction.

“And here we are, two Chinese women, enjoying an Italian dish with an American film and…” Melinda turns the bottle to check the label, “French wine. What time to be alive.”

“Yeah thanks for that wine,” Daisy says with a relaxed grin. “But I sure hope you don’t need a ride home.”

“Mmm, well I’m certainly not driving anywhere for the next hour. I might need to sober up here, huh?” Melinda says, looking over with a knowing grin. “Want to watch another one and chill?”

Daisy feels her mouth go slightly dry and wonders if there’s any room in her flushed cheeks for a little more red.

“If you don’t want to make out, I’d really rather you quit flirting with me,” Daisy says without thinking, “because I’m a little drunk and am trying _really_ hard not to think about kissing you…”

Daisy doesn’t get to finish that sentence.

It’s actually a _wonderful_ time to be alive.


End file.
